Fear is a fact of life everyone faces from time to time. In most cases, fear is a healthy reaction to a dangerous situation. But sometimes fear can be so extreme, so overwhelming, that it interferes with normal living. That is what happened to me driving cross-country last summer.
I'd agreed to help my brother, Mac, move from the East Coast to California. He would drive a rental truck loaded with his belongings, and I would follow him in his sedan, then fly back. We figured it would be a simple trip, with four or five motel stops along the way.
Living and working in coastal Georgia for most of my life, I did not have a great deal of long-distance driving experience. Looking back, I can see that I'd always felt a twinge of fear when driving over small bridges and along hilly highways. As I was getting ready for the trip, I had a vague concern about the steep mountain roads that lay ahead. But I thought I would get used to them.
As we crossed some high bridges near the Blue Ridge Mountains on the first leg of our trip, a kind of breathlessness gripped me, a sinking, rolling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I tended to veer slightly away from the edge of the roadway and the drop-off beyond. My knuckles whitened from my tense grip on the steering wheel. At the end of each bridge, a great rush of relief would come over me, only to be replaced in short order by fear of the next obstacle.
When we stopped in Nashville the first night, I mentioned my feelings to Mac, who is the practical sort. "Oh, that's nothing," he said cheerfully. "Lots of people hate driving on mountain roads and high bridges. Just turn up the music on your radio and focus on that. Keep your mind occupied."
I gave him a weak smile and said good night. But later, as I tossed and turned in bed, I couldn't chase away the apprehension I had about the high driving ahead. The more I tried not to think about it, the more my mind kept going back to that helpless feeling of panic I had on the first leg of the journey. My fear seemed to possess a life of its own. You're being childish, I chided myself. This is ridiculous! If I could just close my eyes and relax, I thought, the renewal of a good night's sleep would drive the fear away.
But it didn't go away. All through the flatlands of Arkansas, Oklahoma, north Texas, and New Mexico, it lay like a coiled snake inside of me. When we approached the high plateau of northern Arizona, it began to stir. As the grades grew steeper and the curves sharper, my sense of control faltered. "It's all in your head," I kept repeating desperately. "There is no danger. It's all in your head."
Yet I couldn't defeat the terror. Mile after mile, it was like an invisible force drawing my attention toward the edge of the road where the soft shoulder gave way to thin air. I tried everything I could think of. I cranked up the radio. Sang songs. Recited poetry. All to no avail. The palms of my hands were so sweaty that I had to squeeze the steering wheel to keep my grip.
I kept closing the gap between my car and my brother's truck, inching toward the reassuring glow of the taillights like a frightened sheep following a shepherd. I could see Mac watching me in his rearview mirror, and that night at supper in Kingman, Arizona, he said, "Leigh, you're tailgating. You're much too close for these mountain roads." He studied my face for a moment, then added, "Tomorrow will be the last day of high country. Just try to hang in there. We've got this far okay. You know there's nothing to be afraid of."
I understood that. I had to go on. But the prospect of hairpin turns and sheer drop-offs made it impossible for me to eat any supper. Mac tried to keep the conversation breezy, but it didn't help. I excused myself early and went to bed, exhausted.